THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


A  Lady's  Shoe 


A  Lady's  Shoe 


By 

J.  M.  Barrie 


oe 


Published    by  Brentano's   at 
31  Union  Square  New  York. 


Copyright,  1893 

BY 

UNITED  STATES  BOOK  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


A  LADY'S  SHOE 


After  it  is  too  dark  to  read,  save  to  those 
■who  will  travel  to  their  windows  in  search 
of  light,  a  man  I  know  is  sometimes  to  be 
found  in  his  arm-chair,  by  the  fire,  toying 
with  a  lady's  shoe.  He  is  a  bachelor — whim- 
sical you  will  say — and  how  that  frayed  shoe 
became  his  I  know  not ;  for  often  though  he 
has  told  me,  the  tale  is  never  twice  the  same. 
"Wlien  such  is  his  odd  mood,  he  will  weave 
me  strange  histories  of  the  shoe,  and  if  I 
would  be  sad  they  are  sportive,  and  when 
one  makes  me  merry  he  will  give  it  a  tragic 
ending,  for  such  is  the  nature  of  the  man. 
Sometimes  he  is  not  consistent,  which,  he 
quaintly  explains,  is  because  he  has  only  one 
of  the  shoes  ;  and  he  will  argue  that  so-called 
inanimate  objects  accustomed  to  the  married 


75.25'79 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

life,  such  as  shoes  and  gloves  and  spectacles, 
mourn  the  loss  of  then*  mate  even  as  Chris- 
tians do,  which  he  proves,  should  I  smile, 
by  asking  whether,  though  previously  hard 
workers,  they  are  ever,  if  separated,  of  much 
more  use  in  the  world.  Nor  is  that  the  only 
hard  question  he  asks  me  ;  for  when  I  tell 
him  that  all  his  stories  of  the  shoe  cannot  be 
true,  he  demands  of  me  which  of  them  is 
necessarily  false,  and  then  I  have  no  answer. 
Perhaps  you,  too,  will  be  dumb  to  that 
question  after  yol^  have  listened  to  me,  if 
such  be  your  pleasure,  while  I  repeat  a  httle 
of  what  he  tells  me  in  the  twihght,  as  we  sit 
by  the  fire  looking  at  the  little  bronze  shoe. 

II 

A  HUNDRED  and  one  years  and  six  months 
ago,  says  my  friend,  who  is  scrupulously  ex- 
act about  dates  where  they  are  of  no  conse- 
quence, that  shoe  and  her  partner  got  their 
first  glimpse  of  the  world.  They  sat  all  day 
in  a  shoemaker's  window  in  the  Strand,  look- 

2 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

ing  out  ui)on  the  great  fair  which  human 
beings  pi'oride  for  the  entertainment  of  the 
articles  that  have  the  luck  to  get  a  seat 
in  shopkeepers'  windows,  instead  of  being 
huug  up  inside  on  strings,  or  hidden  away 
in  boxes.  They  were  a  very  dainty  pair, 
made  for  the  feet  of  some  Cinderella  with  a 
godmother,  and  many  ladies  stopped  to  look 
at  them  who  passed  St.  Paul's  without  giv- 
ing it  a  glance.  But  there  was  a  little  di*ess- 
maker  who  loved  those  shoes  as  no  other 
loved  them,  and  she  stood  admiring  them  so 
often  that  they  got  to  know  her  and  won- 
dered why  she  did  not  come  in  and  buy. 
You  see  they  had  as  yet  no  knowledge  of  the 
world,  and  thought  that  a  trumpery  dress- 
maker ought  to  have  them,  just  because  she 
had  such  pretty  little  feet.  They  did  not 
understand  that  beautiful  shoes  are  not  for 
feet  that  fit  them,  but  for  purses  that  can 
buy  them. 

She  was  not  so  very  little,  this  dressmaker 
who  hungei'ed  for  the  tiny  bronze  shoes  ; 
but  .she  was  only  a  girl,  and  she  had  to  sew 

3 


A  Lady'^s  Shoe 

for  her  life  all  day  and  often  all  night,  and 
that,  my  friend  says,  is  why  he  calls  her  the 
little  dressmaker.  I  suppose  he  means  that 
she  was  so  small  compared  to  the  hig  foes 
a  poor  girl  has  to  fight  in  London.  But 
though  she  was  poor,  she  was  not  unhappy. 
She  not  only  made  pretty  dresses  out  of  rich 
material  for  fine  ladies,  such  as  the  shoes 
were  meant  for,  but  pretty,  cheap  frocks  for 
herself,  in  which  she  was  delightful  to  look 
at.  A  really  pretty  girl  always  looks  best 
in  something  at  twopence-halfjjenny  the 
yard,  and  really  plain  ones  look  their  worst 
in  silk  and  velvet.  These,  be  it  noted,  are  my 
friend's  views.  The  little  dressmaker  never 
quite  rose  to  them.  She  often  smiled  with 
satisfaction  when  she  saw  herself  in  a  mir- 
ror ;  but  as  often  she  sighed  over  her  sewing, 
wishing  she  could  see  herself  in  the  fine  bro- 
cades that  are  meant  for  my  Lady  Mary.  As 
it  is  the  duty  of  all  women  to  look  as  nice 
as  possible,  the  little  dressmaker  cannot  be 
blamed  for  wishing  sometimes  that  she  had 
five  thousand   a  year.     Had  she  had  that 

4 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

sum,  her  first  purchase  would  have  been 
the  shoes.  She  often  thought  of  them  at 
nights,  and  looked  at  her  pretty  feet  and 
counted  her  money,  and  then  shook  her  head 
mournfully. 

The  little  dressmaker  had  only  one  rela- 
tive in  the  whole  wide  world,  and  he  was  a 
boy  of  twelve,  six  or  eight  years  younger 
than  herself.  He  was  her  brother,  and  they 
lived  together  in  a  shabby  room  that  looked 
bright,  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
these  two  loved  each  other.  Y/ill  ran  er- 
rands for  anyone  who  would  employ  him, 
and  he  had  such  an  appetite  that  he  often 
felt  compelled  to  apologize  for  it.  The  little 
dressmaker  could  have  bought  the  shoes  to 
which  she  had  given  her  heart,  had  she  not 
known  that  the  consuming  desire  of  Will 
was  to  possess  a  certain  magnificent  knife. 

"How  absurd  of  Will,"  the  little  dress- 
maker often  said  to  herself,  "to  want  that 
ugly  knife.  What  can  he  do  with  it,  except 
cut  his  fingers  ? " 

At  these  times  she  could  not  help  compar- 
5 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

ing  boys  to  girls,  and  thinking  that  the  de- 
sires of  her  own  sex  were  much  more  reason- 
able, for  what  could  be  more  natural  and 
proper  than  to  pine  for  the  loveliest  pair  of 
bronze  shoes  ? 

Will  knew  why  his  sister  often  gazed  at 
these  shoes,  and  he  would  smile  at  her  in- 
fatuation. 

' '  How  foolish  girls  are  !  "  was  his  com- 
ment to  himself.  "  No  sensible  person  could 
see  that  knife  without  wishing  to  own  it ;  but 
what  does  it  matter  whether  one  wears 
pretty  shoes  or  ugly  shoes,  or  even  no  shoes 
at  aU  ? " 

Nevertheless,  those  two  loved  each  other, 
and  Will  would  have  liked  his  sister  to  get 
the  shoes,  if  only  he  could  get  the  knife  as 
well.  The  httle  dressmaker  loved  Will  even 
more  than  that,  and  was  determined  that  he 
should  have  the  knife,  though  she  had  to 
give  up  the  shoes. 

Can  you  see  her  at  the  shoemaker's  win- 
dow, looking  at  the  shoes,  and  then  at  her 
own  feet,  until  she  felt  certain  that  all  the 

6 


A  Lady''s  Shoe 

Strand  was  laughing  at  her?  Once  she  went 
into  the  shop  and  asked  the  price  of  the 
shoes.  She  came  out  scared.  Next  day, 
notwithstanding,  she  was  back  at  the  win- 
dow, with  the  money  in  her  possession,  and 
it  almost  compelled  her  to  go  in  and  buy. 
She  had  to  run  away.  After  that  she  left 
the  money  at  home,  lest  it  should  some  day 
drag  her  into  the  shop. 

She  tried  to  avoid  the  Strand  altogether, 
but  still  her  feet  took  her  there  against  her 
will,  for  you  cannot  conceive  how  anxious 
they  were  to  step  into  those  little  bronze 
shoes. 

The  little  dressmaker,  who  was  the  most 
unselfish  of  women,  despised  herself  for  her 
vanity,  and  thought  to  be  happy  again  by 
buying  tlie  knife  without  delay.  Then  the 
shoes  would  be  beyond  her  reach  as  corn- 
icle tely  as  if  some  great  lady  had  bought  them. 

"  Here  is  the  money  for  the  knife  Will," 

she  said,  bravely,  one  day,  and  Will  grasped 

the  money,  which  was  in  many  pieces,  all 

earned  with  toil. 

7 


A  Lady''s  Shoe 

"But  the  shoes? "  Will  said,  repressing  his 
desire  to  rush  out  for  the  knife. 

"  I  don't  care  about  them,"  his  sister  said, 
turning  her  head  away. 

"  It  is  not,"  Will  said,  uncomfortably,  "as 
if  you  had  no  shoes.  Those  are  nice  ones 
you  are  wearing  now." 

They  were  not  really  nice  ones.  It  was 
quite  a  shame  that  such  pretty  feet  should  be 
libelled  by  them.  But  these  were  matters 
which  Will  did  not  understand. 

"And  all  one  wants  of  shoes,"  he  said,  "  is 
that  they  should  have  no  holes  in  them," 

"That  is  all,"  answered  the  little  dress- 
maker, with  a  courageous  smile,  and  she 
spoke  of  the  knife  with  such  interest  that 
Will  set  off  to  buy  it,  convinced  that  she  no 
longer  cared  about  the  shoes.  Forgetting 
something,  however,  he  turned  back  for  it, 
and  behold,  he  found  the  little  dressmaker 
in  tears.  You  must  not  blame  her.  It  was 
quite  a  big  sacrifice  she  had  made,  and  there- 
fore, though  she  was  crying,  she  was  not 
very  unhappy.      Unselfishness  is  the  best 

8 


A  Ladifs  Shoe 

cure  for  trouble.  Will,  of  course,  did  not 
realize  this.  He  suddenly  remembered  that, 
though  they  were  so  poor,  he  seemed  to  get 
everything  he  wanted  very  much,  while  she 
seemed  to  get  nothing.  He  was  stricken 
with  remorse,  and  said  craftily  that  he 
wanted  her  to  come  with  him  to  buy  the 
knife.  Well,  she  went  with  him,  and  pres- 
ently she  discovered  that  it  was  not  the  knife 
he  meant  to  buy. 

"  Oh,  Will,"  she  whispered,  trembluag,  "I 
won't  have  the  shoes.  I  want  you  to  get  the 
knife." 

"Pooh,"  said  Will,  grandly,  "  I  don't  care 
to  have  the  knife.  What  use  do  I  have  for 
it?" 

"You  will  make  me  wretched,  Will,"  the 
little  dressmaker  said,  "  if  you  buy  the  shoes. 
These  I  have  are  quite  nice  ones." 

"  You  are  to  have  the  shoes,"  replied  Will, 
firmly.  "No  one  could  look  so  pretty  in 
them  as  you  will  do." 

"Oh,  Will,  have  you  noticed?"  faltered 
the    little    dressmaker,   meaning    had  Will 

9 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

noticed  tliat  her  feet  really  were  made  for 
lovely  shoes. 

"Of  course  I  have,"  answered  Will,  not 
at  all  understanding  what  she  was  referring 
to. 

' '  But  I  can't  spend  so  much  money  on 
myself,"  she  said. 

"It  is  my  money  now,"  said  Will,  tri- 
umiDhantly,  ' '  and  I  am  to  give  you  the  shoes 
as  a  present." 

Feeling  like  a  man,  he  requested  her  to 

take  his  arm,  and  so  they  advanced  along 

the  Strand,  making  quite  a  gallant  show  for 

such  wayfarers  as  could  read  faces.     Alas! 

they  reached  the  shop  too  late.     The  shoes 

were  gone.     An  hour  earlier  they  had  been 

bought  by  an  heiress,  for  whom  they  were 

too  small.     The  shopkeeper  had  pointed  this 

out  to  her  courteously,  but  she,   too,  had 

fallen  in  love  with  the  pretty  shoes,  and  her 

only  answer  to  him  was,  ' '  I  buy  them  :  I 

undertake  to  get  into  them. "    Now  we  must 

leave  the  sad  little  dressmaker  and  follow 

the  fortunes  of  the  shoes. 

10 


A  Lady's  Shoe 


m 


I  INTERRUPTED  my  friend  at  this  point, 
saying,  "It  is  the  little  dressmaker  I  am 
interested  in ;  not  the  shoes.  Tell  me  more 
of  her." 

"She  vanished  out  of  my  knowledge  at 
that  point  in  her  history,"  he  answered;  "I 
don't  know  what  became  of  her." 

"A  story-teller,"  I  complained,  "has  no 
right  to  close  liis  tale  so  ahruptly.  It  is  his 
duty  to  leave  nothing  to  the  pubhc's  imagi- 
nation." 

"  Mine,"  he  said,  "  is  not  a  story,  it  is  only 
something  that  happened,  and  I  warned  you 
that  I  did  not  know  the  end.  In  real  life 
you  never  get  the  end  of  a  story,  hut  you 
can  guess  it  if  you  will. " 

"Then,"  I  said,  "I  guess  that  the  little 
dressmaker " 

"  Had  more  severe  disappointments  in  after 
life  than  the  loss  of  a  pair  of  shoes,"  he 
said. 

"But  had  a  happy  future,"  I  broke  in, 
11 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

almost  entreating  him  to  say  the  words. 
"When  her  brother  became  a  man  he  gave 
her  a  pretty  house  in  the  suburbs  to  be  mis- 
tress of,  and  she  was  as  happy  as " 

"As  Ruth  Pinch,"  he  suggested  ;  "no,  I 
think  Will  married,  and  left  the  httle  dress- 
maker alone  in  the  shabby  rooai." 

"Until  she  married,  you  mean?" 

"Or  until,"  said  my  friend,  very  sadly, 
"she  was  damned  to  all  eternity  that  a  gen- 
tleman might  have  his  pleasure. " 

' '  Don't  say  that, "  I  implored. 

"The  little  dressmaker  is  dead,"  he  an- 
swered, "  and  the  worms  have  eaten  her  long 
ago,  so  it  does  not  matter  much."  Then  he 
looked  at  me  sharply :  "  If  I  cannot  give  the 
story  an  end, "  he  said,  ' '  I  can  at  least  give  it  a 
moral.  When  I  was  in  your  house  yesterday 
I  found  a  pale  little  governess  teaching  your 
children,  and  I  thought  (forgive  me)  that  you 
were  somewhat  brusque  to  her.  She  was 
the  little  dressmaker  over  again.  Ah,  sir, 
that  is  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that  the 
stories  in  real  life  have  no  ending!     The 

12 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

brave  little  cli'essmaker  is  still  in  London; 
you  brush  against  her  in  every  street,  you 
meet  her  in  scores  of  houses.  Remember 
that  httle  bit  of  her  history,  and  you  will 
help  to  make  her  next  scene  brighter.  And 
now  I  must  tell  you  of  her  who  bought  the 
shoes  and  took  them  to  Gretna  Green,  and 
of  how  they  enth'ely  altered  her  future  be- 
cause they  were  a  size  too  small.  This  time 
the  story  has  an  ending,  or  what  passes  for 
such  in  a  world  of  make-believe.  It  is  about 
a  grandfather  of  mine,  too,  whose  marriage, 
as  you  shall  hear,  was  entirely  arranged  by 
this  shoe." 

rv 

Miss  May  Gregory,  the  heiress  into 
whose  possession  the  shoes  passed,  was  a 
lovely  creature  on  a  somewhat  large  scale, 
and  having  only  lately  left  school,  she  was 
desperately  anxious  to  be  married.  So  anx- 
ious was  she,  that  matrimony  was  the  first 
consideration,  and  the  man  only  the  second. 

She  had  two  lovers,  whom  she  called  Jack 

13 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

and  Tom,  and  she  was  so  fond  of  both  that 
she  would  have  married  either.  Her  papa, 
who  knew  her  pretty  well,  said  she  was  a 
sentimental  goose,  and  he  was  so  feared  by 
both  Jack  and  Tom,  that  when  they  heard  his 
voice  in  the  stilly  night  asking  who  that  was 
playing  the  guitar  beneath  his  daughter's  win- 
dow, they  leaped  the  orchard  wall  and  ran. 

"You  can't  marry  both,"  Mr.  Gregory  ex- 
plained to  Miss  May ;  ' '  and  as  they  would 
only  make  a  man  between  them,  it  is  obvious 
that  you  marry  neither.  No  tears,  please, 
and  let  me  hear  less  nonsense  about  love; 
whoever  heard  of  a  girl's  loving  two  men  at 
once?" 

Miss  May  thought  her  papa  very  unfeel- 
ing, and  pointed  out  that,  of  course,  she  only 
loved  one  of  them.  Her  tragedy  was  that 
she  could  not  decide  which  one. 

My  own  idea  is  that  they  were  so  very 
much  alike  that  a  lady  could  not  be  indiffer- 
ent to  the  one  and  love  the  other.  But  I  am 
a  bachelor,  and  often  wonder  how  young 

ladies  can  choose  a  young  man  out  of  so  many 

14 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

young  men  of  the  same  pattern  and  hold 
him  higher  than  the  rest.  Financially  Jack 
and  Tom  were  easily  distmguished,  however. 
Jack  had  ready  money  but  no  prospects; 
Tom  had  prospects  (he  said)  but  no  ready 
money.  You  may  be  sure  that  Miss  May 
considered  this  no  difference  at  all.  She  had 
sufficient  money  and  prospects  for  both  her- 
self and  her  husband,  whichever  one  he 
should  prove  to  be. 

Though  it  was  in  London  that  Miss  May 
bought  the  shoes,  it  was  in  a  provincial  town 
that  she  first  tried  to  get  into  them,  the  town 
where  she  and  her  severe  papa  lived.  She 
was  going  to  the  theatre  that  night,  and  to 
Gretna  Green  afterward,  if  the  fates  proved 
friendly.  It  was  her  father  who  was  to  take 
her  to  the  theatre,  and  Jack  who  was  to  take 
her  to  Gretna  Green.  The  arrangements 
had  been  made  cleverly,  as  you  will  see. 

For  nearly  half  an  hour  did  the  carriage 
wait  at  the  door  before  Miss  May  was  ready 
to  step  into  it.  When  she  at  last  joined  her 
father,   who  was   fuming,    for  he  detested 

15 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

being  late  for  the  play,  her  face  was  red.  I 
wish  I  could  say  that  this  was  because  she 
was  blushing  or  had  been  crying  over  the 
impropriety  of  the  contemplated  runaway 
marriage.  But  it  was  not.  Miss  May  was 
merely  red  in  the  face  because  her  fight  with 
the  shoes  had  been  protracted.  She  had 
gained  a  momentary  triumph,  however,  for, 
in  her  own  words,  she  had  "got  into  them." 
True  they  pinched  and  made  her  stumble  in 
her  walk,  but  she  had  only  to  walk  a  few 
yards  to  the  carriage  and  another  few  yards 
from  the  playhouse  door  to  a  box. 

I  have  forgotten  what  the  play  was  ;  it 
was,  probably,  one  of  the  dull  comedies  that 
are  now  esteemed  and  edited  because  they 
are  old.  Many  people  were  crowding  into 
the  house,  and  in  the  vestibule  stood  Jack, 
who  made  a  sign  to  his  lady  that  all  was 
well.  Then  he  disappeared  without  being 
seen  by  the  father  he  was  hoodwinking. 
Tom  was  less  fortunate.  That  is  to  say,  the 
father  did  see  him.  He  was  also  more  for- 
tunate, however,  for  he  had  a  few  moments' 

16 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

talk  with  Miss  May.  That  lady  ought  not, 
perhaps,  to  liave  let  Tom  know  that  she  was 
coming  to  the  play  to-night.  She  was  really 
Jack's  now,  or  about  to  be,  if  the  plot  did 
not  miscarry.  But  was  it  not  natural  that 
she  should  feel  sorry  for  Tom  ?  That  day 
she  had  sent  him  back  his  letters  (he  used  to 
slip  them  into  her  hands,  and  she  kept  them 
in  a  box  beside  Jack's  letters),  with  an  inti- 
mation that  all  was  now  over  between  them. 
She  had  also  added  that  she  was  going  to  the 
play  that  night,  and  I  suijpose  her  reason 
for  this  injudicious  act  was  that  she  looked 
forward  to  a  delightfully  sad  parting  mth 
him.  But  Miss  May  had  not  quite  under- 
stood Tom.  In  the  crush  at  the  theatre  she 
held  out  her  hand  (the  one  further  from  her 
j)apa)  that  Tom  might  squeeze  it  surrep- 
titiously. Thus  did  she  hope  to  break  the 
blow.  But  frantic  Tom  would  have  none  of 
her  hand.  He  stalked  after  her  into  the 
box,  and  in  the  presence  of  her  father  de- 
manded an  explanation.  Miss  May,  who 
was  already  beginning  to  wish  that  she  had 

;j  17 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

never  seen  those  lovely  little  bronze  shoes — 
they  were  hurting  her  so  much — wept  at 
Tom's  grief  and  admired  him  for  his  vehe- 
mence. As  for  the  father,  he  was  first 
amazed,  secondly  delighted,  and  thirdly 
afraid.  It  was  pleasant  to  him  to  hear  that 
his  daughter  was  determined  to  be  done 
with  the  youth,  but  disquieting  to  observe 
that  the  whole  house  was  listening  to  Tom's 
declamation.  Tom  promising  to  lower  his 
voice,  papa  consented  to  leave  the  box  for 
five  minutes  that  the  farewells  might  take 
place  in  j)rivacy. 

In  that  five  minutes  the  second  last  act  of 
a  tragedy  was  played  in  the  back  of  the  box, 
Tom  announced  that  his  prospects  were  now 
death  by  his  own  pistol.  Miss  May,  in  ter- 
ror, put  her  hands  on  his  shoulders  ;  and 
then,  remembering  Jack,  withdrew  them. 
She  had  promised  Jack  not  to  say  a  word  of 
the  conspiracy  to  Tom,  but  nowit  all  came 
out.  At  half -past  nine  a  written  note  was 
to  be  handed  in  to  Miss  May,  piu'portiug  to 

come  from  an  aunt  of  hers  who  was  in  a  box 

18 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

beneath.  The  note  was  to  ask  her  and  her 
papa  to  join  the  aunt.  Papa  loathed  the 
aunt,  and  was  therefore  certain  to  refuse  ; 
but  he  would  let  Miss  May  go.  In  the  lobby- 
she  was  to  be  joined  by  Jack,  whisked  into 
a  carriage  that  was  already  waiting  near  the 
theatre  door,  and  borne  off  in  the  direction 
of  Gretna  Gi'een.  There  was  quite  a  chance 
of  the  runaways  being  twenty  miles  off  be- 
fore the  chase  began. 

"  So  farewell,  Tom,  dear  Tom,"  said  Miss 
May.  But  dear  Tom,  forgetting  his  promise 
to  papa,  began  to  stamp,  calling  her  the 
most  horrid  names,  and  thus  delighting  her. 

"You  know  how  I  could  love  you,"  she 
said,  picldng  her  tenses  carefully.  ' '  But  am 
I  to  blame  if  you  are  so  poor  ? " 

"You  could  wait  for  me.  My  pros- 
pects  " 

"I  can't  wait,  Tom;  good-by.  Kiss  me, 
Tom,  for  the  last  time." 

' '  I  won't.     You  are  a  heartless  coquette. 

May,  if  that  carriage  had  been  mine,  would 

you  have  come  with  me  ? " 

19 


A  Lady''s  Shoe 

"I— I  don't  know." 

Men  should  not  distress  women  with  such 
difficult  questions. 

"Kiss  me,  Tom,  for  the  last  time." 

"I  won't." 

Then,  like  a  sensible  man,  Tom  changed 
his  mind,  and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"It  is  not  for  the  last  time,"  he  said, 
fiercely.  ' '  May,  you  love  me,  and  me  alone, 
and  Jack  shall  not  have  you  ;  he  shall  not. 
I  have  an  idea  ;  quick,  tell  me  how  I  shall 
know  Jack's  carriage  ? " 

Miss  May,  wondering,  had  just  began  to 
answer  him,  when  i^apa  reappeared.  Tom 
departed,  but  not  with  the  look  of  a  hope- 
less man  on  his  face.  As  for  the  young  lady, 
having  treated  dear  Tom  so  kindly,  she 
naturally  began  to  think  lovingly  of  dear 
Jack. 


The  ruse  with  the  letter  succeeded.     Miss 

May  was  trembling  a  little  when  she  left  the 

box.    Had  her  papa  flung  her  a  kind  word 

20 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

just  then  she  might  have  postponed  the 
elopement ;  but  he  asked  her  grumpily  why- 
she  was  looking  at  him  so  sentimentally, 
and,  of  course,  after  that  she  hesitated  no 
longer.  He  Httle  thought  as  the  door  closed 
on  her  that  the  next  time  they  met  she 
would  be  a  married  woman. 

Miss  May  always  maintained  afterward 
that  from  the  moment  when  she  left  her 
father's  box  until  she  realized  that  she  was  in 
a  carriage  beside  Jack,  all  was  a  blank  to 
her.  The  theatre  attendant,  however,  who 
saw  the  carriage  drive  off,  and  described  the 
scene  subsequently  to  the  infuriated  father, 
declared  that  she  was  less  agitated  than  her 
lover. 

' '  I  suppose  Jack  carried  me  down  that 
dark  street  to  the  carriage,"  was  Miss  May's 
surmise. 

' '  The  gentleman  was  a  little  excited-like, 

but  the  lady  she  were  wonderful  cool,"  was 

the  attendant's  declaration.     His  story  ended 

thus  : 

"They  had  started,  when  the  lady  she  gave 
21 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

a  scream,  and  the  carriage  stopped,  and  the 
gentleman  he  jumped  out  and  looked  for 
something  in  the  street.  He  get  it,  too,  and 
then  he  jumps  in  beside  her  again,  and  off 
they  go  at  a  spanking  rate.  I  don't  know 
what  it  was  ;  something  she  had  dropped, 
most  likely. " 

To  his  dying  day  this  man  was  denied  the 
small  pleasure  of  knowing  what  Jack 
jumped  out  of  the  carriage  to  pick  up.  It 
was  one  of  the  shoes.  Miss  May's  feet  had 
been  protesting  so  vigorously  in  the  theatre 
against  further  confinement  in  their  narrow 
prison  house  that  with  one  foot  she  had 
pressed  the  shoe  half  off  the  other.  In  the 
street  the  shoe  fell  off  and  Jack  had  to  find 
it,  for  although  in  Scotland  one  may  marry 
in  a  hurry,  one's  feet  must  be  properly  shod. 
So  Miss  May  thought  then,  but  she  was 
presently  to  discover  that  a  pair  of  shoes 
are  a  convenient  possession  rather  than  in- 
dispensable. 

Through  the  greater  part  of  the  night  the 
carriage  rolled  northward,  but  at  last  an  inn 

22 


A  Lady''s  Shoe 

(noTV,  I  believe,  a  in-ivate  house)  was 
reached,  where  they  had  to  wait  three 
hours  for  fresh  horses.  Miss  May  had  a 
bedroom,  but  did  not  sleep  a  wink  (she 
said),  while  the  nervous  Jack  paced  up  and 
down  in  front  of  the  inn,  listening  for  horses 
in  pursuit,  and  thinking  he  heard  them 
every  five  minutes. 

If  a  man  can  be  too  gentlemanly,  that  man 
seems  to  have  been  Jack  throughout  this  es- 
capade. Until  he  could  claim  her  as  his 
wife,  he  would  not  take  even  what  she  called 
formal  liberties.  He  sat  on  the  seat  opposite 
her.  He  i^aid  her  no  compliments  ;  he  ad- 
dressed her  as  Miss  Gregory,  which  had  not 
been  his  custom.  Of  course,  she  admired 
this  delicacy,  but  still 

The  journey  was  resumed  with  early  light, 
and  now,  as  they  stepped  once  more  into 
their  carriage,  both  of  the  runaways  looked 
hard  at  one  of  the  postilions. 

"Surely,  you  are  not  the  man  I  engaged 
yesterday  ? "  Jack  said  to  him. 

"No,  my  lord,"  answered  the  fellow,  com- 
23 


A  Lady''s  Shoe 

posedly  ;  "  lie  were  took  ill,  and  oflFered  me 
his  place.  No  offence  intended,  my  lord.  I 
have  been  on  this  here  kind  of  job  before." 

"You  have  been  to  Gretna  Green  be- 
fore ? " 

"Rayther." 

' '  You  will  do  as  well  as  another.  Drive 
on." 

Miss  May  said  nothing  to  the  man,  but  she 
thought  a  good  deal  about  him.  Despite  his 
dark  hair  and  sallow  complexion,  despite 
his  boorish  manners,  she  thought  him  very 
like  Tom.  It  was  Tom  in  disguise.  He  had 
bribed  the  real  postilion,  and  here  he  was  on 
his  way  to  Scotland  with  the  woman  he 
wanted  to  marry,  but  by  no  means  certain 
how  he  was  to  get  her. 

Within  twenty  miles  of  the  border  there  is 

a  hillock    which    commands    an    extensive 

view.     It  is  close  to  the  old  high  road,  and 

many  a  man  bound  for  Gretna  Green  has 

run  up  to  it  to  see  whether  his  pursuers  were 

in  sight.     Jack  was  one  of  the  number.     He 

was  not  gone  many  minutes,    but  in  the 

24. 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

meantime  Tom  had  found  an  opportunity  of 
revealing  himself  to  the  lady. 

"  May,"  he  said,  appearing-  so  suddenly  by 
her  side  that  she  screamed,  ' '  don't  you  know 
me  ?  I  am  Tom.  May,  dearest,  you  said 
you  would  marry  me  if  I  could  take  you  to 
Scotland.     I  am  doing  it." 

"Oh,  Tom  !"  wailed  Miss  May,  all  in  a 
tremble  (as  she  said  afterwards),  "I  never 
made  any  such  promise.  I  am  to  marry  Jack. " 

"Never  !"  ci-ied  Tom.  "May,  darling 
May " 

"Tom,  Tom  !"  said  Miss  May,  reproach- 
f Tilly,  "why  did  you  come  to  disturb  my 
peace  of  mind,  when  everything  was  going 
on  so  nicely  ? " 

"Love  of  my  Hfe  ! "  began  Tom,  then 
kissed  her  hand  and  x-esumed  his  seat 
beside  the  other  postilion.  He  had  seen 
Jack  running  back. 

"We  are  pursued,"  Jack  said,  as  he  drew 

near,  panting,  ' '  by  two  men  on  horseback, 

and  one  of  them,  I  am  convinced,  is  your 

father." 

25 


A  Lady^s  Shoe 

The  carriage  rolled  on  more  quickly  now 
than  ever,  and  for  the  next  half -hour  Miss 
May  thought  little  of  which  of  her  lovers 
she  should  marry.  Her  new  fear  was  that 
she  would  not  be  able  to  marry  at  all.  Jack 
was  as  polite  as  ever.  Certainly  Tom  had 
been  less  delicate.  He  had  called  her  his 
darling,  he  had  kissed  her  hand.  He  should 
not  have  taken  these  liberties,  but  still 

In  vain  were  the  jaded  horses  of  the  runa- 
ways whipped  up.  The  pursuers  gained  on 
the  carriage  until,  when  the  latter  was  within 
half  a  mile  of  the  border,  they  were  not  four 
hundi-ed  yards  behind. 

"There  is  only  one  chance  for  us,  May," 
said  poor  Jack,  forgetting  in  his  excitement 
that  she  was  not  May,  but  Miss  Gregory; 
' '  we  must  leave  the  carriage  at  the  next 
turn  of  the  road  which  hides  us  from  view." 

"And  be  overtaken  in  a  moment! "  cried 
Miss  May,  aghast. 

"I  hoj)e  not,"  said  Jack.  "Listen,  dear, 
to  what  I  propose.  At  the  next  turn  I  will 
stop  the  carriage,  and  you  will  at  once  jump 

36 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

out  with  me.  I  Avill  tell  our  fellows  to  cli-ive 
on  as  fast  as  they  can,  and  you  and  I  will 
conceal  ourselves  until  your  father  and  his 
companion  have  galloped  past.  They  will 
pursue  the  carriage.  In  the  meantime  you 
and  I  will  cross  these  fields  to  the  A^llage, 
whose  lights  I  see  plainly,  and  there  the 
blacksmith  will  marry  us." 

"They  will  overtake  the  carriage  in  a  few 
minutes,"  the  lady  said,  "  and  finding  it 
empty,  hurry  on  to  Gretna  Green.  Why, 
we  shall  find  them  waiting  for  us  there." 

"We  shall  not,"  answered  Jack,  triumph- 
antly, with  his  head  out  at  the  window.  ' '  I 
see  two  roads  before  us,  of  which  the  one 
evidently  leads  to  Gretna  Green,  and  the 
other  to  the  right.  I  will  tell  our  fellows  to 
take  the  latter ;  that  will  give  us  a  good  start." 

Jack  stopped  the  carriage  and  assisted  his 
lady  out,  at  the  same  time  shouting  direc- 
tions to  the  two  men.  "Stop!"  he  cried  to 
them,  as  they  were  driving  oflP.  ' '  One  of 
you  come  with  me;  we  may  need  a  witness." 
Tom  jumped  down.     The  carriage  drove  on. 

27 


A  Lady''s  Shoe 

The  two  men  and  the  woman  hid.  The 
horsemen,  of  whom  Mr.  Gregory  was  purple 
with  passion,  raced  by  them. 

"And  now  for  Gretna  Green  on  foot!" 
said  Jack,  giving  Miss  May  his  arm. 

They  hurried  on,  but — the  shoe!  Miss 
May  had  this  time  no  maid  to  help  her,  and 
the  shoe  was  but  half  on.  She  was  sliding 
her  foot  along  the  ground,  rather  than  lift- 
ing it.  By  and  by,  when  they  were  not  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  old  toll-house,  which 
is  just  on  the  other  side  of  the  border.  Miss 
May  sank  to  the  ground,  crying,  "  I  can  go 
no  further ;  I  have  lost  one  of  my  shoes ! " 

There  was  no  time  to  look  for  the  shoe  in 
the  twilight. 

"Assist  her  to  that  cottage,"  said  Jack  to 
the  supposed  postilion,  pointing  to  the  toll- 
house, ' '  and  I  will  hasten  on  to  the  village 
and  bring  the  blacksmith  back  with  me. 
Ask  them  to  hide  her,  if  need  be.  You  will 
be  well  paid." 

So  saying,  Jack  ran  on,  while  Tom  obeyed 

Ms  injunctions  to  the  letter.     With  Miss 

38 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

May's  assistance  he  explained  the  position  to 
the  toll-keeper,  who  grinned  when  he  heard 
that  the  bridegToom  was  running  to  Gretna 
Green  for  the  blacksmith. 

' '  You  English, "  he  said,  ' '  think  that  there 
is  but  one  man  in  broad  Scotland  who  can 
make  a  couple  one  in  a  hurry,  and  you  call 
him  the  blacksmith,  though  he  is  no  black- 
smith at  all.  If  your  lover,  honey,  had 
stopped  here,  I  should  have  had  you  sphced 
by  this  time. " 

"  Is  that  true  ? "  cried  Tom,  while  Miss  May 
stared. 

"I  have  married  scores  in  my  time,"  the 
old  man  answered.  ' '  Why,  I  married  half- 
a-dozen  this  week." 

"  But  is  it  legal  ?"  asked  May. 

The  toll-keeper  smiled. 

''Try  it,  honey,"  he  suggested. 

Then  it  was  Tom's  turn  to  speak. 

"May,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  conviction, 
"  this  is  providential.  Old  gentleman,  marry 
us  as  quickly  as  you  can.  Get  your  family 
as  witnesses,  if  witnesses  are  necessary." 

29 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

The  toll-keeper  looked  at  the  lady. 

"No,  uo,"  she  said,  "I  promised  Jack. 
Oil,  Tom,  how  I  wish  there  had  been  only 
one  of  you  ! " 

For  half  an  hour  did  Miss  May  refuse  to 
listen  to  what  Tom  called  reason.  Then  she 
started  up,  for  she  was  sure  she  heard  the 
gallop  of  horses. 

"Tom  !"  she  cried. 

So  she  and  Tom  were  married.  Jack  and  Mr. 
Gregory  arrived  at  the  toll -house  five  minutes 
afterward,  but  it  was  all  over  by  that  time. 

VI 

Thus  my  friend  ended  his  story,  adding 
that  his  grandfather  had  come  out  of  the 
affair  victorious. 

" So  that  your  grandfather  was  Tom  ?"  I 
said. 

"If,"  he  replied,  coolly,  "you  think  Tom 
was  the  victor." 

"Well,  he  got  her." 

"And  Jack  did  not.     But  perhaps  Jack 

was  the  luckier  man  of  the  two.'' 

30 


A  Lady's  Shoe 

"Then  was  Jack  your  grandfather  ? " 
"I  won't  say.     I  leave  it  to  yovi  to  decide 
which  was  victorious,  the  one  who  got  her 
or  the  one  who  lost  her." 

"It  must  have  been  Tom.  You  told  me 
that  your  grandfather's  marriage  was  en- 
tirely arranged  by  a  shoe." 

"Yes,  I  said  so,  but  both  of  their  mar- 
riages were  arranged  by  a  shoe,  for  Jack 
subsequently  married  another  lady,  and,  of 
course,  it  was  the  shoe  that  led  to  his  marry- 
ing her  instead  of  Miss  May." 

"At  least,"  I  said,  "tell  me  which  of  the 
two  shoes  this  is.  " 

"That  would  be  telling  all,"  he  replied, 
"for  Tom  retained  possession  of  the  shoe  in 
which  Miss  May  was  married,  and  Jack 
found  the  other  one  next  morning.  To  tell 
you  which  shoe  this  is  would  be  to  tell  you 
which  man  was  my  grandfather.  Can't  you 
guess  ?  I  have  told  you  he  was  the  one  who 
had  reason  to  be  thankful  that  the  lady  be- 
came Mrs.  Tom.    Now,  Avliich  one  was  that  ? " 

Reader,  which  do  you  think  ? 
31 


THE  INCONSIDERATE 
WAITER 


THE  INCONSIDERATE 
AVAITER 

Frequently  I  have  to  ask  myself  in  the 
street  for  the  name  of  the  man  I  bowed  to 
just  now,  and  then,  before  I  can  answer,  the 
wind  of  the  lu'st  corner  blows  him  from  my 
memory.  I  have  a  theory,  however,  that 
those  puzzling  faces,  which  pass  before  I  can 
see  who  cut  the  coat,  all  belong  to  club- 
waiters. 

Until  William  forced  his  affairs  upon  me, 
that  was  all  I  did  know  of  the  private  life  of 
waiters,  though  I  have  been  in  the  club  for 
twenty  yeai's.  I  was  even  tmaware  whether 
they  slept  down-stau's  or  had  their  own 
homes,  nor  had  I  the  interest  to  inquire  of 
other  members,  nor  they  the  knowledge  to 
inform  me.  I  hold  that  this  sort  of  people 
should  be  fed  and  clothed  and  given  airing 

35 


Tlie  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

and  -wives  aud  cliildi^en,  and  I  subscribe 
yearly,  I  believe,  for  these  purposes  ;  but  to 
come  into  closer  relation  with  waiters  is  bad 
form  ;  they  are  club  fittings,  and  William 
should  have  kept  his  distress  to  himseK  or 
taken  it  away  and  patched  it  up,  like  a  rent 
in  one  of  the  chairs.  His  inconsiderateness 
has  been  a  pair  of  spectacles  to  me  for 
months. 

It  is  not  correct  taste  to  know  the  name  of 
a  club- waiter,  so  that  I  must  apologize  for 
knowing  William's,  and  still  more  for  not 
forgetting  it.  If,  again,  to  speak  of  a  waiter 
is  bad  form,  to  speak  bitterly  is  the  comic  de- 
gree of  it.  But  William  has  disappointed  me 
sorely.  There  were  years  when  I  would  de- 
fer dining  several  minutes  that  he  might 
wait  on  me.  His  i)ains  to  reserve  the  win- 
dow-seat for  me  were  i^erfectly  satisfactory. 
I  allowed  him  privileges,  as  to  suggest 
dishes,  and  would  give  him  information,  as 
that  someone  had  startled  me  in  the  read- 
ing-room by  slamming  a  door.     I  have  shown 

him  how  I  cut  my  finger  with  a  piece  of 

36 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

string.  Obviously  lie  was  gratified  by  these 
attentions,  usually  recommending  a  liqueui' ; 
and  I  fancy  he  must  have  understood  my 
suflPerings,  for  he  often  looked  ill  himself. 
Probably  he  was  rheumatic,  but  I  cannot  say 
for  cei'tain,  as  I  never  thought  of  asking,  and 
he  had  the  sense  to  see  that  the  knowledge 
would  be  offensive  to  me. 

In  the  smokmg-room  we  have  a  waiter 
so  independent  that  once,  when  he  brought 
me  a  yellow  Chartreuse,  and  I  said  I  had 
ordered  green,  he  rex)lied,  "  No,  sir  ;  you 
said  yellow."  William  could  never  have 
been  guilty  of  such  effrontery.  In  ai>j)ear- 
ance,  of  course,  he  is  mean,  but  I  can  no 
more  describe  him  than  a  milkmaid  could 
draw  cows.  I  suppose  we  distinguish  one 
waiter  from  another  much  as  we  x)ick  our 
hat  from  the  rack.  We  could  have  plotted 
a  murder  safely  before  William.  He  never 
presumed  to  have  opinions  of  his  own. 
When  such  was  my  mood  he  remained 
silent,  and  if  I  announced  that  some- 
thing diverting   had    happened    to  me  he 

37 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

laughed  before  I  told  liim  what  it  was.  He 
turned  the  twinkle  in  his  eye  ofE  or  on  at 
my  bidding  as  i*eadily  as  if  it  was  the  gas. 
To  my  "Sure  to  be  wet  to-morrow,"  he 
would  reply,  "Yes,  sir;"  and  to  Trelaw- 
ney's  "  It  doesn't  look  like  rain,"  two  min- 
utes afterward,  he  would  reply,  "No,  sir." 
It  was  one  member  who  said  Lightning  Rod 
would  win  the  Derby  and  another  who  said 
Lightning  Rod  had  no  chance,  but  it  was 
William  who  agreed  with  both.  He  was 
like  a  cheroot,  which  may  be  smoked  from 
either  end.  So  used  was  I  to  him  that,  had 
he  died  or  got  another  situation  (or  what- 
ever it  is  such  persons  do  when  they  disap- 
pear from  the  club),  I  should  probably  have 
told  the  head  waiter  to  bring  him  back,  as  I 
disliked  changes. 

It  would  not  become  me  to  know  precisely 
when  I  began  to  think  William  an  ingrate, 
but  I  date  his  lapse  from  the  evening  when 
he  brought  me  oysters.  I  detest  oysters,  and 
no  one  knew  it  better  than  Wilham.     He 

has  agreed  with  me  that  he  could  not  under- 

38 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

stand  any  gentleman's  liking  them.  Be- 
tween me  and  a  certain  member  who  smacks 
his  lips  twelve  times  to  a  dozen  of  them, 
William  knew  I  liked  a  screen  to  be  placed 
unto  we  had  reached  the  soup,  and  yet  he 
gave  me  the  oysters  and  the  other  man  my 
sardine.  Both  the  other  member  and  I 
called  quickly  for  brandy  and  the  head 
waiter.  To  do  William  justice,  he  shook, 
but  never  can  I  forget  his  audacious  explana- 
tion, "  Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  I  was  thinking  of 
something  else." 

In  these  words  Wilham  had  flung  off  the 
mask,  and  now  I  knew  him  for  what  he 
was, 

I  must  not  be  accused  of  bad  form  for 
looking  at  Wilham  on  the  following  even- 
ing. What  pi'ompted  me  to  do  so  was  not 
personal  interest  in  him,  but  a  desire  to  see 
whether  I  dare  let  him  wait  on  me  again. 
So,  recalling  that  a  castor  was  off  a  chair 
yesterday,  one  is  entitled  to  make  sure  that 
it  is  on  to-day  before  sitting  down.  If  the 
expression  is  not  too  strong,  I  may  say  that 

39 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

I  was  taken  aback  by  William's  manner. 
Even  when  crossing  the  room  to  take  my 
orders  he  let  his  one  hand  play  nervously 
with  the  other.  I  had  to  repeat  "  Sardine  on 
toast"  twice,  and  instead  of  answering  "Yes, 
sir,"  as  if  my  selection  of  sardine  on  toast 
was  a  personal  gratification  to  him,  which  is 
the  manner  one  expects  of  a  waiter,  he 
glanced  at  the  clock,  then  out  of  the  window, 
and,  starting,  asked,  "Did  you  say  sardine 
on  toast,  sir? " 

It  was  the  height  of  summer,  when  Lon- 
don smells  like  a  chemist's  shop,  and  he  who 
has  the  dinner-table  at  the  window  needs  no 
candles  to  show  him  his  knife  and  fork.  I 
lay  back  at  intervals,  now  watching  a 
starved-looking  woman  asleep  on  a  doorstep, 
and  again  complaining  of  the  club  bananas. 
By  and  by,  I  saw  a  little  girl  of  the  common- 
est kind,  ill-clad  and  dirty,  as  all  these  arabs 
are.  Their  parents  should  be  compelled  to  feed 
and  clothe  them  comfortably,  or  at  least  to 
keep  them  indoors,  where  they  cannot  ofPend 

our  eyes.     Such  children  are  for  pushing  aside 

40 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

■^ith  one's  umbrella ;  but  this  girl  I  noticed 
because  she  was  gazing  at  the  club  windows. 
She  had  stood  thus  for  perhaps  ten  minutes, 
when  I  became  aware  that  someone  was 
leaning  over  me,  to  look  out  at  the  window. 
I  turned  round.  Conceive  my  indignation 
on  seeing  that  the  rude  person  was  William. 

"How  dare  you,  William? "  I  said,  sternly. 
He  seemed  not  to  hear  me.  Let  me  tell,  in 
the  measured  words  of  one  describing  a  past 
incident,  what  then  took  place.  To  get 
nearer  the  window,  he  pressed  heavily  on 
my  shoulder. 

"William,  you  forget  yourself!"  I  said, 
meaning— as  I  see  now— that  he  had  forgot- 
ten me. 

I  heard  him  gulp,  but  not  to  my  repri- 
mand. He  was  scanning  the  street.  His 
hands  chattered  on  my  shoulder,  and,  push- 
ing him  from  me,  I  saw  that  his  mouth  was 
agape. 

"What  are  you  looking  for? "  I  asked. 

He  stared  at  me,  and  then,  like  one  who 
had  at  last  heard  the  echo  of  my  question, 

41 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

seemed  to  be  brought  back  to  the  club.  He 
turned  his  face  from  me  for  an  instant,  and 
answered,  shakily: 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir!— I  shouldn't 
have  done  it.  Are  the  bananas  too  ripe, 
sir? " 

He  recommended  the  nuts,  and  awaited 
my  verdict  so  anxiously  while  I  ate  one  that 
I  was  about  to  speak  graciously,  when  I 
again  saw  his  eyes  drag  him  to  the  window. 

"William,"  I  said,  my  patience  giving 
way  at  last ;  "  I  dislike  being  waited  on  by  a 
melancholy  waiter." 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  replied,  trying  to  smile,  and 
then  broke  out  i^assionately,  "For  God's 
sake,  sir,  tell  me,  have  you  seen  a  little  girl 
looking  in  at  the  club  windows? " 

He  had  been  a  good  waiter  once  and  his 
distracted  visage  was  spoiling  my  dinner. 

"There,"  I  said,  pointing  to  the  girl,  and 
no  doubt  would  have  added  that  he  must 
bring  me  coffee  immediately,  had  he  contin- 
ued to  listen.  But  already  he  was  beckoning 
to  the  child.     I  had  not  the  least  interest  in 

43 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

her  (indeed  it  never  struck  me  that  waiters 
had  private  affau's,  and  I  still  think  it  a  pity- 
that  they  should  have) ;  but  as  I  happened  to 
be  looking  out  at  the  window  I  could  not 
avoid  seeing  what  occurred.  As  soon  as  the 
girl  saw  William  she  ran  into  the  middle 
of  the  street,  regardless  of  vehicles,  and 
nodded  three  times  to  him.  Then-w^he  dis- 
appeared. 

I  have  said  that  she  was  quite  a  common 
child,  without  attraction  of  any  sort,  and  yet 
it  was  amazing  the  difference  she  made  in 
William.  He  gasped  relief,  like  one  who 
has  broken  through  the  anxiety  that  checks 
breathing,  and  into  his  face  there  came  a 
silly  laugh  of  happiness.  I  had  dined  well, 
on  the  whole,  so  I  said : 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  cheerful  again,  Wil- 
liam." 

I  meant  that  I  approved  his  cheerful- 
ness, because  it  helped  my  digestion,  but  he 
must  needs  think  I  was  sympathizing  with 
him. 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  he  answered.     "Oh, 
43 


Tlie  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

sir  !  when  she  nodded  and  I  saw  it  was  all 
right,  I  could  have  gone  down  on  my  knees 
to  God." 

I  was  as  much  horrified  as  if  he  had 
dropped  a  plate  on  my  toes.  Even  William, 
disgracefully  emotional  as  he  wag  at  the 
moment,  flung  out  his  arms  to  recall  the 
shameful  words. 

"Coffee,  William  !"  I  said,  sharply. 

I  sipped  my  coffee  indignantly,  for  it  was 
plain  to  me  that  William  had  something  on 
his  mind. 

"You  are  not  vexed  with  me,  sir?"  he 
had  the  hardihood  to  whisper. 

"  It  was  a  liberty,"  I  said. 

"  I  know,  sir  ;  but  I  was  beside  myself." 

"That  was  a  hberty  also." 

He  hesitated,  and  then  blurted  out : 

"  It  is  my  wife,  sir.     She " 

I  stopped  him  with  my  hand.     William, 

whom  I  had  favored  in  so  many  ways,  was 

a  married  man  !    I  might  have  guessed  as 

much  years  before  had  I  ever  reflected  about 

waiters,  for  I  knew  vaguely  that  liis  class 

44 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

did  this  sort  of  thing.     His  confession  was 
distasteful  to  me,  and  I  said,  warningly : 
"  Remember  where  you  are,  WOliam." 
"Yes,  sir;  but,  you  see,  she  is  so  deli- 
cate  " 

"Delicate!    I  forbid  you  speaking  to  me 
on  unpleasant  topics." 

"Yes,  su';  begging  your  jjardon." 
It  was  characteristic  of  "William  to  beg  my 
pardon  and  withdraw  his  wife  like  some  un- 
successful cUsh,  a3  if  its  taste  would  not  re- 
main in  the  mouth.  T  shall  be  chided  for 
questioning  him  further  about  his  wife,  but, 
though  doubtless  an  ujiusual  step,  it  was 
only  bad  form  superficially^  for  my  motive 
was  irreproachable.  I  inquired  for  his  wife, 
not  because  I  was  interested  in  her  welfare, 
but  in  the  hope  of  allaying  my  irritation. 
So  I  am  entitled  to  invite  the  wayfarer  who 
has  bespattered  me  with  mud  to  scrape  it 
off. 

I  desired  to  be  told  by  William  that  the 
girl's  signals  meant  his  wife's  recovery  to 

health.    He  shotdd  have  seen  that  such  was 

45 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

mj  wish  and  answered  accordingly.  But, 
witli  the  brutal  inconsiderateness  of  his  class, 
he  said  : 

' '  She  has  had  a  good  day,  but  the  doctor, 
he — the  doctor  is  af card  she  is  dying. " 

Already  I  repented  my  question.  William 
and  his  wife  seemed  in  league  against  me, 
when  they  might  so  easily  have  chosen  some 
other  member. 

"  Pooh  the  doctor,"  I  said. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  answered. 

"  Have  you  been  married  long,  William  ?" 

"Eigbt  years,  sir.  Eight  years  ago  she 
was — I — I  mind  her  when  .  .  .  and  now  the 
doctor  says " 

The  fellow  gaped  at  me.  ' '  More  coffee, 
sir  ? "  he  asked. 

"What  is  her  ailment  ? " 

"She  was  always  one  of  the  delicate  kind, 
but  full  of  spirit,  and — and  you  see  she  has 
had  a  baby  lately " 

"William!" 

' '  And  she — I — the  doctor  is  af  eared  she's 

not  picking  up. " 

46 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"I  feel  sure  she  will  pick  up." 

"Yes,  sir?" 

It  must  have  been  the  wine  I  had  drunk 
that  made  me  tell  him : 

' '  I  was  once  married,  William,  My  wife 
— it  was  3 list  such  a  case  as  yours." 

"  She  did  not  get  better,  sir  ?  " 

"No." 

After  a  pause,  he  said,  "Thank  you,  sir," 
meaning  for  the  sympathy  that  made  me 
tell  him  that.  But  it  must  have  been  the 
wine. 

' '  That  little  girl  comes  here  with  a  mes- 
sage from  your  wife  ? " 

"Yes  ;  if  she  nods  three  times,  it  means 
that  my  wife  is  a  little  better." 

"She  nodded  thrice  to-day." 

"But  she  is  told  to  do  that  to  relieve  me, 
and  maybe  those  nods  don't  tell  the  truth. " 

"  Is  she  your  girl  ?  " 

' '  No,  we  have  none  but  the  baby.  She  is 
a  neighbor's.     She  comes  twice  a  day." 

"  It  is  heartless  of  her  parents  not  to  send 

her  every  hour." 

47 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"But  she  is  six  years  old,"  he  said,  "  and 
has  a  house  and  two  sisters  to  look  after  in 
the  daytime,  and  a  dinner  to  cook.  Gentle- 
folk don't  understand." 

"I  suppose  you  live  in  some  low  part, 
William." 

"Off  Drury  Lane,"  he  answered,  flush- 
ing ;  "but— but  it  isn't  low.  You  see,  we 
were  never  used  to  anything  better,  and  I 
mind  when  I  let  her  see  the  house  before  we 
were  married,  she— she  a  sort  of  cried,  be- 
cause she  was  so  proud  of  it.  That  was 
eight  years  ago,  and  now— she's  afeard  she'll 
die  when  I'm  away  at  my  work." 

"Did  she  tell  you  that  ? " 

"Never.  She  always  says  she  is  feeling  a 
little  stronger. " 

"Then  how  can  you  know  she  is  afraid  of 
that  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  how  I  know,  sir,  but  when 
I  am  leaving  the  house  in  the  morning  I  look 
at  her  from  the  door,  and  she  looks  at  me, 
and  then  I — I  know." 

"A  green  Chartreuse,  William  ! " 
48 


The  Inconsiderate  Waitei' 

I  tried  to  forget  William's  vulgar  story  in 
billiards,  but  he  had  spoiled  my  game.  My 
opponent,  to  whom  I  can  give  twenty,  ran 
out  when  I  was  sixty-seven,  and  I  put  aside 
my  cue  pettishly.  That  in  itself  was  bad 
form,  but  what  would  they  have  thought 
had  they  known  that  a  waiter's  impertinence 
caused  it  !  I  gi'ew  angrier  with  William  as 
the  night  wore  on,  and  next  day  I  punished 
hun  by  giving  my  orders  through  another 
waiter. 

As  I  had  my  window  seat,  I  could  not  but 
see  that  the  girl  was  late  again.  Somehow 
I  dawdled  over  my  coffee.  I  had  an  even- 
ing paper  before  me,  but  there  was  so  little 
in  it  that  my  eyes  found  more  of  interest  in 
the  street.  It  did  not  matter  to  me  whether 
William's  wife  died,  but  when  that  girl  had 
promised  to  come,  why  did  she  not  come? 
These  lower  classes  only  give  their  word  to 
break  it.     The  coffee  was  undriukable. 

At  last  I  saw  her.     William  was  at  an- 
other window,  pretending  to  do  something 
with  the  cui'tains.   I  stood  up,  pressing  closer 
4  49 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

to  the  window.  The  coffee  had  been  so  bad 
that  I  felt  shaky.  She  nodded  three  times 
and  smiled. 

"  She  is  a  little  better,"  William  whispered 
to  me,  almost  gayly. 

"Whom  are  you  speaking  of?"  I  asked, 
coldly,  and  immediately  retired  to  the  bil- 
liard-room, whei'e  I  played  a  capital  game. 
The  coffee  was  much  better  there  than  ia  the 
dining-room. 

Several  days  passed,  and  I  took  care  to 
show  William  that  I  had  forgotten  his  maun- 
derings.  I  chanced  to  see  the  little  girl 
(though  I  never  looked  for  her)  every  even- 
ing and  she  always  nodded  three  times, 
save  once,  when  she  shook  her  head,  and 
then  William's  face  grew  white  as  a  napkin. 
I  remember  this  incident  because  that  night 
I  could  not  get  into  a  pocket.  So  badly  did  I 
play  that  the  thought  of  it  kept  me  awajje 
in  bed,  and  that,  again,  made  me  wonder 
how  William's  wife  was.  Next  day  I  went 
to  the  club  early  (which  was  not  my  custom) 
to  see  the  new  books.     Being  in  the  club 

50 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

at  any  rate,  I  looked  into  the  dining-room 
to  ask  William  if  I  liad  left  my  gloves 
thei'e,  and  the  sight  of  him  reminded  me 
of  his  wife,  so  I  asked  for  her.  He  shook 
his  head  mournfully,  and  I  went  oflf  in  a 
rage. 

So  accustomed  am  I  to  the  club,  that  when 
I  dine  elsewhere  I  feel  uncomfortable  next 
morning,  as  if  I  had  missed  a  dinner.  Wil- 
liam knew  this;  yet  here  he  was,  hounding 
me  out  of  the  club !  That  evening  I  dined 
(as  the  saying  is)  at  a  restaurant,  where  no 
sauce  was  served  with  the  asparagus.  Fur- 
thermore, as  if  that  were  not  triumph  enough 
for  William,  liis  doleful  face  came  between 
me  and  every  dish,  and  I  seemed  to  see  his 
wife  dj'ing  to  annoy  me. 

I  dined  next  day  at  the  club,  for  self-pres- 
ervation, taking,  however,  a  table  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  engaging  a  Avaiter 
who  had  once  nearly  poisoned  me  by  not  in- 
terfering when  I  i)ut  two  lumps  of  sugar  into 
my  coffee  instead  of  one,  which  is  my  allow- 
ance.    But  no  William  came  to  me  to  ac- 

51 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

knowledge  his  humiliation,  and  by  and  by  I 
became  aware  that  he  was  not  in  the  room. 
Suddenly  the   thought  struck  me  that  his 

wife  must  be  dead,  and  I .     It  was  the 

worst-cooked  and  the  worst-served  dinner  I 
ever  had  in  the  club. 

I  tried  the  smoking-room.  Usually  the  talk 
there  is  entertaining  :  but  on  that  occasion  it 
was  so  frivolous  that  I  did  not  remain  five 
minutes.  In  the  card-room  a  member  told 
me,  excitedly,  that  a  policeman  had  spoken 
rudely  to  him  ;  and  my  strange  comment 
was  : 

"  After  all,  it  is  a  small  matter." 

In  the  library,  where  I  had  not  been  for 
years,  I  found  two  members  asleep,  and,  to 
my  surprise,  Wilham  on  a  ladder  dusting 
books. 

"You  have  not  heard,  sir?"  he  said  in 
answer  to  my  raised  eyebrows.  Descending 
the  ladder  he  whispered,  tragically  : 

"It  was  last  evening,  sir.     I — I  lost  my 

head  and  I — swore  at  a  member." 

I  stepped  back  from  William,  and  glanced 
53 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

apprehensively  at  the  two  members.  They 
still  slept. 

"I  hardly  kne-w,"  William  went  on, 
"what  I  was  doing  all  day  yesterday,  for  I 
had  left  my  wife  so  weakly  that " 

I  stamped  my  foot. 

"I  beg  your  pardon  for  speaking  of  her," 
he  had  the  grace  to  say,  "but  I  couldn't 
help  slipping  to  the  window  often  yesterday 
to  look  for  Jemiy,  and  when  she  did  come 
and  I  saw  she  was  crying,  it — it  a  sort  of  con- 
fused me,  and  I  didn't  know  right,  su*,  what 
I  was  doing.  I  hit  against  a  member,  Mr. 
Myddleton  Finch,  and  he — he  jumped  and 
swore  at  me.  Well,  sh',  I  had  just  touched 
him  after  all,  and  I  was  so  miserable,  it  a  kind 
of  stung  me  to  be  treated  like — like  that, 
and  me  a  man  as  well  as  him,  and  I  lost  my 
senses,  and — and  I  swore  back." 

William's  shamed  head  sank  on  his  chest, 

but  I  even  let  pass  his  insolence  in  Hkening 

himself  to  a  member  of  the  club,   so  afraid 

was  I  of  the  sleepers  waking  and  detecting 

me  in  talk  with  a  waiter. 

53 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"For  the  love  of  God,"  William  cried, 
with  coarse  emotion,  ' '  don't  let  them  dismiss 
me  !" 

"  Speak  lower  !  "  I  said.  "Who  sent  you 
here  ? " 

"I  was  turned  out  of  the  dining-room  at 
once,  and  told  to  attend  to  the  library  until 
they  had  decided  what  to  do  with  me.  Oh, 
su',  I'll  lose  my  place  !  " 

He  was  blubbering,  as  if  a  change  of 
waiters  was  a  matter  of  importance. 

"This  is  very  bad,  William,"  I  said.  "I 
fear  I  can  do  nothing  for  you." 

"Have  mercy  on  a  disti'acted  man  !"  he 
enti'eated.  ' '  I'll  go  on  my  knees  to  Mr.  Myd- 
dleton  Finch." 

How  could  I  but  despise  a  fellow  who 
would  be  thus  abject  for  a  pound  a  week  ? 

"  I  dare  not  tell  her,"  he  continued,  "  that 
I  have  lost  my  place.  She  would  just  fall 
back  and  die." 

"I  forbade  you  speaking  of  your  wife,"  I 
said,  sharply,  ' '  unless  you  can  speak  pleas- 
antly of  her." 

U 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

' '  But  she  may  be  worse  now,  sir,  and  I 
cannot  even  see  Jenny  from  here.  The  li- 
brary windows  look  to  the  back." 

"If  she  dies,"  I  said,  " it  will  be  a  warn- 
ing to  you  to  marry  a  stronger  woman  next 
time." 

Now,  everyone  knows  that  there  is  little 
real  affection  among  the  lower  orders.  As 
soon  as  they  have  lost  one  mate  they  take 
another.  Yet  William,  forgetting  our  rela- 
tive positions,  drew  himself  up  and  raised  his 
fist,  and  if  I  had  not  stepped  back  I  swear  he 
would  have  struck  me. 

The  highly  improper  words  William  used 

I  will  omit,  out  of  consideration  for  him. 

Even  while  he  was  apologizing  for  them  I 

retired  to  the  smoking-room,  where  I  found 

the  cigarettes  so  badly  rolled  that  they  would 

not  keej)  alight.    After  a  little  I  remembered 

that  I  wanted  to  see  Myddleton  Finch  about 

an  improved  saddle  of  which  a  friend  of  his 

has  the  patent.     He  was  in  the  news-room, 

and  having  questioned  him  about  the  saddle, 

I  said  : 

55 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"By  the  way,  what  is  this  story  about 
your  swearing  at  one  of  the  waiters  ?  " 

"You  mean  about  his  swearing  at  me," 
Myddleton  Finch  replied,  reddening. 

"  I  am  glad  that  was  it,"  I  said.  "  For  I 
could  not  believe  you  guilty  of  such  bad 
form." 

"If  I  did  swear "he  was  beginning, 

but  I  went  on  : 

' '  The  version  which  reached  me  was  that 
you  swore  at  him,  and  he  repeated  the  word. 
I  heard  he  was  to  be  dismissed  and  you  rep- 
rimanded." 

"Who  told  you  that  ?  "  asked  Myddleton 
Finch,  who  is  a  timid  man. 

"  I  forget;  it  is  club  talk,"  I  replied,  light- 
ly. ' '  But  of  course  the  committee  will  take 
your  word.  The  waiter,  whichever  one  he 
is,  richly  deserves  his  dismissal  for  insulting 
you  without  provocation." 

Then  our  talk  returned  to  the  saddle,  but 
Myddleton  Finch  was  abstracted,  and  pres- 
ently he  said : 

"Do  you  know,  I  fancy  I  was  wrong  in. 
56 


TJie  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

thinking  that  waiter  swore  at  me,  and  I'll 
withdraw  my  charge  to-morrow." 

MydcUeton  Finch  then  left  me,  and,  sitting 
alone,  I  realized  that  I  had  been  doing  Wil- 
liam a  service.  To  some  slight  extent  I  may 
have  intentionally  helped  him  to  retain  his 
place  in  the  club,  and  I  now  see  the  reason, 
which  was  that  he  alone  knows  precisely  to 
what  extent  I  like  my  claret  heated. 

For  a  mere  second  I  remembered  William's 
remark  that  he  should  not  be  able  to  see  the 
gh-l  Jenny  from  the  libraiy  windows.  Then 
this  recollection  drove  from  my  head  that  I 
had  only  dined  in  the  sense  that  my  dinner- 
bill  was  paid.  Returning  to  the  dining- 
room,  I  happened  to  take  my  chair  at  the 
window,  and  while  I  was  eating  a  devilled 
kidney  I  saw  in  the  street  the  girl  whose 
nods  had  such  an  absurd  effect  on  William. 

The  children  of  the  poor  are  as  thought- 
less as  their  parents,  and  this  Jenny  did  not 
sign  to  the  windows  in  the  hope  that  Wil- 
liam might  see  her,  though  she  could  not  see 
him.     Her    face,   which  was    disgracefully 

57 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

dirty,  bore  doubt  and  dismay  on  it,  but 
■whether  she  brought  good  news  it  would  not 
tell.  Somehow  I  had  expected  her  to  signal 
when  she  saw  me,  and,  though  her  message 
could  not  interest  me,  I  was  in  the  mood  in 
which  one  is  irritated  at  that  not  taking  place 
which  he  is  awaiting.  Ultimately  she  seemed 
to  be  making  up  her  mind  to  go  away 

A  boy  was  passing  with  the  evening  papers, 
and  I  hurried  out  to  get  one,  rather  thought- 
lessly, for  we  have  all  the  papers  in  the  club. 
Unfortunately  I  misunderstood  the  direction 
the  boy  had  taken ;  but  round  the  first  cor- 
ner (out  of  sight  of  the  club  windows)  I  saw 
the  girl  Jenny,  and  so  I  asked  her  how  Wil- 
liam's wife  was. 

"Did  he  send  you  to  me? "  she  replied,  im- 
pertinently taking  me  for  a  waiter.  "My !  " 
she  added,  after  a  second  scrutiny,  "I 
b'lieve  you're  one  of  them.  His  missis  is  a 
bit  better,  and  I  was  to  tell  him  as  she  took 
all  the  tapiocar. " 

"How  could  you  tell  him? "  I  asked. 

"I  was  to  do  like  this,"  she  replied,  and 

58 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

went  through  the  suppiug  of  something  out 
of  a  plate  m  dumb  show. 

' '  That  would  not  show  she  ate  all  the 
tapioca,"  I  said. 

"But  I  was  to  end  like  this,"  she  answered, 
licking  an  imaginary  plate  with  her  tongue. 
I  gave  her  a  shilling  (to  get  rid  of  her),  and 
returned  to  the  club  disgusted. 

Later  in  the  evening  I  had  to  go  to  the  club 
library  for  a  book,  and  while  Wilham  was 
looking  in  vain  for  it  (I  had  forgotten  the 
title)  I  said  to  him : 

"By  the  way,  William,  Mr.  Myddleton 
Finch  is  to  tell  the  committee  that  he  was 
mistaken  in  the  charge  he  brought  against 
you,  so  you  will  doubtless  be  restored  to  the 
dining-room  to-morrow." 

The  two  members  were  still  in  their  chairs, 
probably  sleeping  lightly ;  yet  he  had  the  ef- 
frontery to  thank  me. 

"Don't  thank   me,"   I   said,    blushing  at 

the   imputation.      "Remember  your    place, 

WUliam!" 

59 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"  But  Mr.  Myddleton  Finch  knew  I  swore," 
he  insisted. 

"A  gentleman,"  I  replied,  stiflQy,  "cannot 
I'emember  for  twenty-four  hours  what  a 
waiter  has  said  to  him." 

"No,  sir,  but " 

To  stop  him  I  had  to  say : 

"And,  ah,  Wilham,  your  wife  is  a  little 
better.     She  has  eaten  the  tapioca — all  of  it." 

"  How  can  you  know,  sir? " 

"By  an  accident." 

"Jenny  signed  to  the  window? " 

"No." 

"Then  you  saw  her,  and  went  out, 
and " 

' '  Nonsense ! " 

"Oh,  sir,  to  do  that  for  me!  May  God 
bl " 

"William!" 

"Forgive  me,  sir,  but — when  I  tell  my 
missis,  she  will  say  it  was  thought  of  your 
own  wife  as  made  you  do  it." 

He  wrung  my  hand.  I  dared  not  with- 
draw it,  lest  we  should  waken  the  sleepers. 

60 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

William  returned  to  the  dining-room,  and 
I  had  to  show  him  that,  if  he  did  not  cease 
lookhig  gratefully  at  me,  I  must  change  my 
waiter.  I  also  ordered  him  to  stop  telling 
me  nightly  how  his  wife  was,  but  I  con- 
tinued to  know,  as  I  could  not  help  seeing 
the  girl  Jenny  from  the  window.  Twice  in 
a  week  I  learned  from  this  objectionable 
child  that  the  ailmg  woman  had  again  eaten 
all  the  tapioca.  Then  I  became  suspicious  of 
William.     I  will  tell  why. 

It  began  with  a  remark  of  Captain  Up- 
john's.  We  had  been  speaking  of  the  incon- 
venience of  not  being  able  to  get  a  hot  dish 
served  after  1  a.m.,  and  he  said: 

"It  is  because  these  lazy  waiters  would 
strike.  If  the  beggars  had  a  love  of  their 
work,  they  would  not  rush  away  from  the 
club  the  moment  one  o'clock  strikes.  That 
glum  fellow  who  often  waits  on  you  takes  to 
his  heels  the  moment  he  is  clear  of  the  club 
steps.  He  ran  into  me  the  other  night  at  the 
to  J)  of  the  street,  and  was  ofP  without  apolo- 
gizing." 

61 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"You  mean  the  foot  of  the  street,  Up- 
john," I  said,  for  such  is  the  way  to  Drury 
Lane. 

' '  No ;  I  mean  the  top.  The  man  was  run- 
ning west." 

"East." 

"West." 

I  smiled,  which  so  annoyed  him  that  he 
bet  me  two  to  one  in  sovereigns.  The  bet 
could  have  been  decided  most  quickly  by 
asking  William  a  question,  but  I  thought, 
foolishly  doubtless,  that  it  might  hurt  his 
feelings,  so  I  watched  him  leave  the  club. 
The  possibility  of  Upjohn's  winning  the  bet 
had  seemed  remote  to  me.  Conceive  my  sur- 
prise, therefore,  when  William  went  west- 
ward. 

Amazed,  I  pursued  him  along  two  streets 

without  realizing  that  I  was  doing  so.     Then 

curiosity  put  me  into  a  hansom.    We  followed 

William,  and  it  proved  to  be  a  three-shilling 

fare,  for  running  when  he  was  in  breath  and 

walking  when  he  was  out  of  it,  he  took  me 

to  West  Kensington. 

62 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

I  discharged  my  cab,  and  from  across  tlie 
street  watched  William's  incomprehensible 
behavior.  He  had  stopped  at  a  dingy  row 
of  workmen's  houses,  and  knocked  at  the 
darkened  window  of  one  of  them.  Presently 
a  light  showed.  So  far  as  I  could  see,  some- 
one pulled  uji  the  blind  and  for  ten  minutes 
talked  to  William.  I  was  uncertain  whether 
they  talked,  for  the  window  was  not  opened, 
and  I  felt  that,  had  William  spoken  through 
the  glass  loud  enough  to  be  heard  inside,  I 
must  have  heard  him  too.  Yet  he  nodded 
and  beckoned.  I  was  still  bewildered  when, 
by  setting  off  the  way  he  had  come,  he  gave 
me  the  opportunity  of  going  home. 

Knowing  from  the  talk  of  the  club  what 
the  lower  orders  are,  could  I  doubt  that  this 
was  some  discreditable  love  affair  of  Wil- 
liam's ?  His  soUcitude  for  his  wife  had  been 
mere  pretence  ;  so  far  as  it  was  genuine,  it 
meant  that  he  feared  she  might  recover. 
He  probably  told  her  that  he  was  detained 
nightly  m  the  club  till  three. 

I  was  miserable  next  day,  and  blamed  the 
63 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

devilled  Iddneys  for  it.  Whether  William 
was  unfaithful  to  his  wife  was  nothing  to 
me,  but  I  had  two  plain  reasons  for  insisting 
on  his  going  straight  home  from  his  club  : 
the  one,  that,  as  he  had  made  me  lose  a  bet, 
I  must  punish  him  ;  the  other,  that  he  could 
wait  upon  me  better  if  he  went  to  bed  be- 
times. 

Yet  I  did  not  question  him.  There  was 
something  in  his  face  that —  Well,  I 
seemed  to  see  his  dying  wife  in  it. 

I  was  so  out  of  sorts  that  I  could  eat  no 
dinner.  I  left  the  club.  Happening  to 
stand  for  some  time  at  the  foot  of  the  street, 
I  chanced  to  see  the  girl  Jenny  coming, 
and —  No  ;  let  me  tell  the  truth,  though 
the  whole  club  reads  ;  I  was  waiting  for  her. 

"  How  is  William's  wife  to-day  ? "  I  asked. 

"She  told  me  to  nod  three  times,"  the  lit- 
tle slattern  replied;  "but  she  looked  like 
nothink  but  a  dead  one  till  she  got  the 
brandy." 

"Hush,  child!"  I  said,  shocked.     "You 

don't  know  how  the  dead  look." 

64 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"  Bless  yer,"  she  answered,  "  don't  I  just ! 
Why,  I've  helped  to  lay  'em  out.  I'm  going 
on  seven." 

"  Is  William  good  to  his  wife  ? " 

"  Course  he  is.     Ain't  she  his  missis  ? " 

"Why  should  that  make  him  good  to 
her  ? "  I  asked,  cynically,  out  of  my  knowl- 
edge of  the  poor.  But  the  ghl,  precocious 
in  many  ways,  had  never  had  my  opportuni- 
ties of  studjdng  the  lower  classes  in  the 
newspapers,  fiction,  and  club  talk.  She  shut 
one  eye,  and  looking  up  wonderingly,   said  : 

"Ain't  you  green — just  ! " 

"When  does  William  reach  home  at 
night?" 

"'Tain't  night;  it's  morning.  When  I 
wakes  up  at  half  dark  and  half  light  and 
hears  a  door  shutting  I  know  as  it's  either 
father  going  off  to  his  work  or  Mr.  Hicking 
coming  home  from  his." 

"Who  is  Mr.  Hicking?" 

"Him  as  we've  been  speaking  on — Wil- 
liam. We  calls  him  mister,  'cause  he's  a  toff. 
Father's  just  doing  jobs  in  Covent  Garden, 
5  65 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

but  Mr.  Hicking,  he's  a  waiter,  and  a  clean 
shirt  every  day.  The  old  woman  would  like 
father  to  be  a  waiter,  but  he  hain't  got  the 
'ristocratic  look." 

"What  old  woman  ? " 

"Go  'long  !  that's  my  mother.  Is  it  true 
there's  a  waiter  in  the  club  just  for  to  open 
the  door  ? " 

"Yes,  but " 

"And  another  just  for  to  lick  the  stamps  ? 
My!" 

"  William  leaves  the  club  at  one  o'clock  ?" 
I  said,  interrogatively. 

She  nodded.  "  My  mother,"  she  said,  "  is 
one  to  talk,  and  she  says  to  Mr.  Hicking  as 
he  should  get  away  at  twelve,  'cause  his 
missis  needs  him  more'n  the  gentlemen  need 
him.     The  old  woman  do  talk." 

' '  And  what  does  William  answer  to  that  ? " 

' '  He  says  as  the  gentlemen  can't  be  kept 
waiting  for  their  cheese." 

' '  But  Wilham  does  not  go  straight  home 

when  he  leaves  the  club  ? " 

"That's  the  kid." 

66 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"  Kid  !  "  I  echoed,  scarcely  understanding*, 
for  knowing  how  little  the  poor  love  their 
chikben,  I  had  asked  William  no  questions 
about  the  baby. 

"Didn't  you  know  his  missis  had  a  kid  ? " 

"  Yes,  but  that  is  no  excuse  for  William's 
staying  away  from  his  sick  wife,  "I  answered, 
sharply.  A  baby  in  such  a  home  as  Wil- 
liam's, I  reflected,  must  be  trying,  but 
still —  Besides  his  class  can  sleep  through 
any  din. 

"  The  kid  ain't  in  our  court,"  the  girl  ex- 
plained. "He's  in  W.,  he  is,  and  I've 
never  been  out  of  W.  C. ;  leastwise,  not  as  I 
knows  on." 

' '  This  is  W.  I  suppose  you  mean  that  the 
child  is  at  West  Kensington  ?  Well,  no 
doubt  it  was  better  for  William's  wife  to  get 
rid  of  the  child " 

"Better!"  interposed  the  girl.  " 'Taiu't 
better  for  her  not  to  have  the  kid.  Ain't  her 
not  having  him  what  she's  always  thinking 
on  when  she  looks  like  a  dead  one  ?  " 

"  How  could  you  know  that  ?  " 
67 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

'"Cause,"  answered  the  girl,  illustrating 
her  words  with  a  gesture,  ' '  I  watches  her, 
and  I  sees  her  arms  going  this  way,  just  like 
as  she  wanted  to  hug  her  kid." 

"Possibly  you  are  right,"  I  said,  frown- 
ing, ' '  but  William  had  put  the  child  out  to 
nurse  because  it  disturbed  his  night's  rest. 
A  man  who  has  his  work  to  do " 

"You  are  green  !  " 

"Then  why  have  the  mother  and  child 
been  separated  ? " 

"Along  of  that  there  measles.  Near  all 
the  young  'uns  in  our  court  has  'em  bad." 

"  Have  you  had  them  ?  " 

"  I  said  the  young  'uns." 

"And  William  sent  the  baby  to  West 
Kensington  to  escape  infection  ?  " 

"Took  him,  he  did." 

"Against  his  wife's  wishes  ? " 

"Na-o  !" 

"  You  said  she  was  dying  for  want  of  the 
child?" 

' '  Wouldn't  she  rayther  die  than  have  the 

kid  die  ? " 

68 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

' '  Don't  speak  so  heai'tlessly ,  child.  Why 
does  William  not  go  straight  home  from  the 
cluh  ?  Does  he  go  to  West  Kensington  to  see 
it?" 

"'Taint  a  hit,  it's  an  'e.  Com-se  he 
do." 

' '  Then  he  should  not.  His  wife  has  the 
first  claim  on  him." 

"Ain't  you  green  !  It's  his  missis  as 
wants  him  to  go.  Do  you  think  she  could 
sleep  till  she  knowed  how  the  kid  was  ? " 

"But  he  does  not  go  into  the  house  at 
West  Kensington  ? " 

"  Is  he  soft  ?  Course  he  don't  go  in,  fear 
of  taking  the  infection  to  the  kid.  They 
just  holds  the  kid  up  at  the  window  to  him, 
so  as  he  can  have  a  good  look.  Then  he 
comes  home  and  tells  his  missis.  He  sits 
foot  of  the  bed  and  tells." 

"  And  that  takes  place  every  night  ?  He 
can't  have  much  to  tell." 

"He  has  just." 

"He  can  only  say  whether  the  child  is 

well  or  iU." 

69 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"My  !  He  tells  what  a  difference  there  is 
in  the  kid  since  he  see'd  him  last. " 

"There  can  be  no  difference  !  " 

"  Go  'long  !  Ain't  a  kid  always  growing  ? 
Haven't  Mr.  Hicking  to  tell  how  the  hair  is 
getting  darker,  and  heaps  of  things  beside  ? " 

"Such  as  what?" 

"Like  whether  he  larfed,  and  if  he  has 
her  nose,  and  how  as  he  knowed  him.  He 
tells  her  them  things  more'n  once." 

"And  all  this  time  he  is  sitting  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  ?  " 

"  'Cept  when  he  holds  her  hand." 

' '  But  when  does  he  get  to  bed  himself  ? " 

' '  He  don't  get  much.  He  tells  her  as  he 
has  a  sleep  at  the  club." 

"He  cannot  say  that." 

"Hain't  I  heard  him  ?  But  he  do  go  to 
his  bed  a  bit,  and  then  they  both  lies  quiet, 
her  pretending  she  is  sleeping  so  as  he  can 
sleep,  and  him  feared  to  sleep  case  he 
shouldn't  wake  up  to  give  her  the  bottle 
stuff." 

"What  does  the  doctor  say  about  her  ? " 
70 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

"  He's  a  good  one,  the  doctor.  Sometimes 
he  says  she  would  get  better  if  she  could 
see  the  kid  through  the  Avindow." 

"Nonsense  ! " 

"  And  if  she  was  took  to  the  country." 

"Then  why  does  not  William  take  her  ? " 

' '  My  !  you  are  green !  And  if  she  drank 
port  wines." 

"  Doesn't  she  ? " 

"No  ;  but  William  he  tells  her  about  the 
gentlemen  di'inking  them." 

On  the  tenth  day  after  my  conversation 
with  this  unattractive  child  I  was  in  my 
brougham,  with  the  windows  ui?,  and  I  sat 
back,  a  paper  before  my  face  lest  anyone 
should  look  in.  Naturally,  I  was  afraid  of 
being  seen  in  company  of  William's  wife 
and  Jenny,  for  men  about  town  are  unchar- 
itable, and,  despite  the  explanation  I  had 
ready,  might  have  charged  me  with  pitying 
William.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  William  was 
sending  his  wife  into  Surrey  to  stay  with 
an  old  nurse  of  mine,  and  I  was  driving  her 

71 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

down  because  my  horses  needed  an  out- 
ing. Besides,  I  was  going  tliat  way,  at  any 
rate. 

I  had  arranged  that  the  girl  Jenny,  who 
was  wearing  an  outrageous  bonnet,  should 
accompany  us,  because,  knowing  the  greed 
of  her  class,  I  feared  she  might  blackmail 
me  at  the  club. 

William  joined  us  in  the  suburbs,  bring- 
ing the  baby  with  him,  as  I  had  foreseen 
they  would  all  be  occupied  with  it,  and  to 
save  me  the  trouble  of  conversing  with  them, 
Mrs.  Hicking  I  found  too  pale  and  fragile 
for  a  workingman's  wife,  and  I  formed  a 
mean  opinion  of  her  intelligence  from  her 
pride  in  the  baby,  which  was  a  very  ordinary 
one.  She  created  quite  a  vulgar  scene  when 
it  was  brought  to  her,  though  she  had  given 
me  her  word  not  to  do  so  ;  what  irritated  me, 
even  more  than  her  tears,  being  her  ill-bred 
apology  that  she  ' '  had  been  'feared  baby 
wouldn't  know  her  again."  I  would  have 
told  her  they  didn't  know  anyone  for  years 
had  I  not  been  afraid  of  the  gui  Jenny,  who 

73 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

dandled  the  infant  on  her  knees  and  talked 
to  it  as  if  it  understood.  She  kept  me  on 
tenterhooks  by  asking  it  offensive  questions : 
such  as,  "Oo  know  who  give  me  that  bon- 
net ? "  and  answering  them  herself,  ' '  It  was 
the  pretty  gentleman  there,"  and  several 
times  I  had  to  affect  sleep  because  she  an- 
nounced, "Kiddy  wants  to  kiss  the  pretty 
gentleman." 

Irksome  as  all  this  necessarily  was  to  a 
man  of  taste,  I  suffered  even  more  when  we 
reached  our  destination.  As  we  drove 
through  the  village  the  girl  Jenny  uttered 
shrieks  of  delight  at  the  sight  of  flowers 
gi'owing  up  the  cottage  walls,  and  declared 
they  were  "just  like  a  music-'all  without  the 
drink  license."  As  my  horses  required  a 
rest,  I  was  forced  to  abandon  my  intention 
of  di'oppmg  these  persons  at  their  lodgings 
and  returning  to  town  at  once,  and  I  could 
not  go  to  the  inn  lest  I  should  meet  inquis- 
itive acquaintances.  Disagreeable  circum- 
stances, therefore,  compelled  me  to  take  tea 
with  a  waiter's  family— close  to  a  window, 

73 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

too,  througli  which  I  could  see  the  girl  Jenny 
talking  excitedly  to  villagers,  and  telling 
them,  I  felt  certain,  that  I  had  heen  good  to 
William.  I  had  a  desire  to  go  out  and  put 
myseK  right  with  those  people. 

William's  long  connection  with  the  club 
should  have  given  him  some  manners,  but 
apparently  his  class  cannot  take  them  on, 
for,  though  he  knew  I  regarded  his  thanks 
as  an  insult,  he  looked  them  when  he  was 
not  speaking  them,  and  hardly  had  he  sat 
down,  by  my  orders,  than  he  remembered 
that  I  was  a  member  of  the  club,  and  jumped 
up.  Nothing  is  in  worse  form  than  whis- 
pering, yet  again  and  again,  when  he  thought 
I  was  not  listening,  he  whispered  to  Mrs. 
Kicking,  "You  don't  feel  faint  ?"  or  "How 
are  you  now  ? "  He  was  also  in  extravagant 
glee  because  she  ate  two  cakes  (it  takes  so 
little  to  put  these  peoj)le  in  good  spirits),  and 
when  she  said  she  felt  like  another  being 
already,  the  fellow's  face  charged  me  with 
the  change.     I  could  not  but  conclude,  from 

the  way  Mrs.  Hickhig  let  the  baby  pound 

71 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

her,   that  she  was  sti'onger  than  she  pre- 
tended. 

I  remained  longer  than  was  necessary,  be- 
cause I  had  sonaething  to  say  to  William 
which  I  knew  he  would  misunderstand,  and 
so  I  put  off  saying  it.  But  when  he  an- 
nounced that  it  was  time  for  him  to  return  to 
London,  at  which  his  wife  suddenly  paled, 
so  that  he  had  to  sign  to  her  not  to  break 
down,  I  dehvered  the  message. 

"WiUiam,"  I  said,  "the  head  waiter 
asked  me  to  say  that  you  could  take  a 
fortnight's  holiday  just  now.  Your  wages 
will  be  paid  as  usual." 

Confound  them  !  WUham  had  me  by 
the  hand,  and  his  wife  was  in  tears  before  I 
could  reach  the  door. 

"Is  it  your  doing  again,  sh?"  William 
cried. 

"William  !  "  I  said,  fiercely. 

"We  owe  everything  to  you,"  he  insisted. 
"The  port  wine " 

' '  Because  I  had  no  room  for  it  in  my 
cellar," 

75 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 


**  The  money  for  the  nurse  in  Lonclon- 


"  Because  I  objected  to  being  waited  on  by 
a  man  who  got  no  sleep." 

"These  lodgings " 

"Because  I  wanted  to  do  something  for 
my  old  nurse." 

"  And  now,  sir,  a  fortnight's  holiday  ! " 

' '  Good-by,  William  !  "  I  said,  in  a  fury. 

But  before  I  could  get  away,  Mrs.  Hicking 
signed  to  William  to  leave  the  room,  and 
then  she  kissed  my  hand.  She  said  some- 
thing to  me.  It  was  about  my  wife.  Some- 
how   I ■    What  busiuess  had  William  to 

tell  her  about  my  wife  ? 

They  are  all  in  Drury  Lane  now,  and 
William  tells  me  that  his  wife  sings  at  her 
work  just  as  she  did  eight  years  ago.  I  have 
no  interest  in  this,  and  try  to  check  his  talk 
of  it ;  but  such  people  have  no  sense  of  pro- 
priety, and  he  even  speaks  of  the  girl  Jenny, 
who  sent  me  lately  a  gaudy  pair  of  worsted 
gloves    worked    by    her  own    hand.      The 

meanest  advantage  they  took  of  my  weak- 

76 


The  Inconsiderate  Waiter 

ness,  however,  was  in  calling  their  baby  af- 
ter me.  I  have  an  uncomfortable  suspicion, 
too,  that  William  has  given  the  other  wait- 
ers his  version  of  the  aff an,  but  I  feel  safe  so 
long  as  it  does  not  reach  the  committee. 


77 


A    COMPLETE    LIST    OF    VOLUMES 
IN  THIS  SERIES 


THE  MAN  WHO  WOULD  BE  KING 

By  RuDYARD  Kipling 

THE  COURTSHIP  OF  DINAH  SHADD 

By  RuDYARD  Kipling 

THE  DRUMS  OF  THE  FORE  AND  AFT 

By  RuDYARD  Kipling 
A  LADY'S  SHOE.       .         .        By  J.  M.  Barrie 

THE  BEAUTY-SPOT.     By  Alfred  De  Musset 

THE  BLACK  PEARL.      By  Victorien  Sardou 


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